After every calm comes a storm, and so, after weeks of listless waiting, doing nothing, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, a very gale of bustle comes on. 'Sail ho!' comes from the lookout aloft. 'One point off our starboard bow!' 'Man the windlass and up anchor!' shouts the officer of the deck, as the strange sail bears down steadily toward us, finally showing signals which tell us she's a friend and brings a mail. The Iroquois steams out to meet her; their anchors drop, and they hold friendly confab. We, too, soon come up, and hear that letters, papers, fresh meat, and ice await us, on the good old Bay State steamer Massachusetts. We prepare to lower boats and get our goodies, when we are told from the Iroquois that a sail lies far off to the N. N. E., and are ordered off on chase. 'It never rains but it pours,' think we. Letters, goodies, and now a chance at a prize! 'Begone dull care!' 'Ay, ay, sir!' responds swift-vanishing ennui, as our eyes are strained in the direction we were told the vessel was seen. No sign of one yet; but as we enter on our second mile, our lookout cries for the first time: 'A sail! dead ahead, sir!' After a five miles' run, we near the vessel sufficiently to make out that she is the brig Perry, one of Uncle Sam's swiftest sailing vessels, and so we quit chasing, and return to get our letters and provisions ere the Massachusetts starts again. An hour from our first meeting we are back, and find her heaving anchor to be off, for she runs on time, and may not delay here; so haste away with the boats, or we lose mails, provisions, and all. The boat returns well laden with barrels of potatoes, quarter of beef, and chunks of ice, but no mail. 'Letters and papers all sent on board the Iroquois,' says the Massachusetts; so if we have any, there they are, but no word of any for us is sent; so with hearts disappointed, but stomachs rejoicing in the prospect of ice water and fresh meat, we settle down.

Our tongues, under red-tape discipline, keep mum, but inwardly we protest against this deprivation, brought about by the wild-goose chase on which we were ordered. Well, to-morrow the State of Georgia is expected down from Beaufort, and she will bring us a mail, we hope. The morrow comes, and at daydawn she heaves in sight, just halting as she nears the flagship, to report herself returned all right, and then down toward us—with a mail, we trust. She is hardly ten ship's lengths away, when she spies a sail to southward, notifies us, and we both make chase. She is deeply laden, we but lightly, so we soon outstrip her, and overtake the sail, which is a schooner, and looks suspicious, very. We order her to 'heave to,' which order is wilfully or unwittingly misunderstood. At any rate she does not slacken her speed, till she finds our guns brought to bear, and we nearly running her down. Then she stops: we send a boat with officers and men to board her and see if we have really a prize, and all is excitement. One officer offers his share for ten dollars—another for twenty—a third for a V, and one for fifty cents; but would-be salesmen of their shares are far more numerous than buyers. And soon the boat returns, reporting the vessel as bound for Port Royal, with coffee, sugar, and sutlers' stores. Her papers are all right, and she may go on without further hinderance. Now back to the State of Georgia for our mails. 'Our mails! our mails!' is the hungry cry of our almost home-sick hearts. As we get within hailing distance, we sing out for our letters, and are answered: 'While you were chasing the schooner, we left your mail on board the Iroquois.' 'The devil you did!' say some in bitter disappointment, but red tape demands that we wait till the flagship sees fit to signal us to come for letters. The hours pass wearily. We have waited weeks for home news, and, now that it is here, we must wait again—a day, two days—a week even, if it suits the flagship's convenience. At last the signals float and read: 'Letters for the ——; come and get them.'

At last! The seals are broken and we read the news. One tells of a sick mother, dying, and longing to see her son. Another is from M——'s lady love: we know by the way he blushes, the fine hand and closely written pages, and various other symptoms. And our fleet of ironclads are busy at Charleston. Heaven help the cause they work for! Now we must hasten with our answers, to have them ready for sending at a moment's notice, when it is signalled: 'A vessel bound North, and will carry your mails, if ready.'

As the sun goes down, the horizon is lit up with bonfires stretching along the coast for miles. 'These fires mean something,' we say knowingly; 'depend upon it, the rebs expect some vessel in to-night.' Nothing came of it, however, though the following afternoon we saw a steamer with two smoke stacks come down the river and take a look, perhaps to see as to her chances of getting out that night. The twilight darkened into night, and night wore on into the small hours, and now we gazed into the gloom anxiously, for at this time, if any, she would seek to run out. With straining eyes and the most intense quiet, we listen for the sound of paddle wheels. A stranger passing along our decks, seeing in the darkness the shadowy forms of men crouched in listening attitudes, would have fancied himself among a body of Indians watching stealthily some savage prey. The night passes on; gray dawn tells of the sun's approach, and soon his streaming splendor lights up sea and land. We look to see if our hoped for prize still waits in the river, but no—she is not there. The day wears on and still no signs of her. If she has slipped by us, it is through the mouth and not the inlet, we feel sure, but still are chagrined, and, doubting the possibility of ever catching one, go to bed with the blues.

The next day we brighten up a little, to be saddened the more, for the Massachusetts on her return trip tells us that, so far from there being good news from Charleston, we have only the worst to hear. The brave little Keokuk is riddled with balls and sunk, and the fleet of ironclads have retired from before the city. It is a costly experience, though it may yet bear precious fruit, for they tell us it has revealed what was necessary to make our next attack successful. What it is, we cannot learn, the authorities meaning in the future, doubtless, to wait till deeds have won them praise, before they make promises of great work.

Night draws on again, and we move in toward shore. Signal lights are burning, and huge bonfires, built behind the forests, that their glare may not light up the water, but their reflection against the background of the sky shows blockade runners the lay and bearings of the land. Something will surely be done to-night, and we keep vigilant watch. Two o'clock A. M., and a sound is heard, whether of paddle wheels, surf on the beach, or blowing off of steam, we cannot tell. 'It's paddle wheels,' says our ensign, and reports quickly to the captain. The first lieutenant springs on deck, a steam whistle is heard, so faint that only steam-taught ears know the sound, and word is passed to slip our chain and anchor, and make chase in the direction of the sound. They spring to the chain and work with a will to unshackle it quickly, but things are not as they should be; the hammer is not at hand, and the pins not fixed for speedy slipping out, even when struck a sharp, heavy blow. 'I think I see a dark object off the direction of the sound we heard, sir,' says some one. 'Confound the chain! will it never unshackle?' they exclaim, as they seek to unloose it. At last it slips, we steam up, and are off in pursuit, but which way shall we turn, and where shall we chase? There is no guiding sound now, and we paddle cautiously on, spending the balance of the night in this blind work, feeling for the prize which has slipped from our fingers, for, as day dawns, we see a large steamer, safe under the walls of the fort. If disappointments make philosophers, we ought to rank with Diogenes.

The next day is filled with growl and 'ifs' and 'ands,' and 'if this had been so and so,' and 'but for that neglect, which we shall know how to avoid next time,' etc., etc. The afternoon of another day comes on, and then a sail is descried, and off we go after it. Seven or eight miles' run brings us close to it; still it pays no attention, but keeps straight on. The captain orders a ball to be fired across her bows, which explodes so near as to splash great jets of water over them. Her crew and captain strike sail, and let go halliards, while they fly behind masts, down cockpit, or wherever they can get for safety. Finding no further harm is meant than to bring them to, they answer back our hail—say they are going to Beaufort, quite a different direction from the one they are heading—and seem generally confused. As an excuse they say their compass is out of order, and as they appear to be wreckers, we allow them to go on without further molestation, and steam back to our moorings, consoling ourselves by the fact that these bootless chases are using up coal, and thereby hastening the time of our going to Beaufort to coal up, where we shall have a chance to step once more on terra firma.

Another night passes, and there are no indications of runners having tried to escape us; but at sunrise we see, far to the south, a schooner, and soon the flagship signals that a prize has been taken by one of our fleet. It looks very much like the schooner we let go yesterday, and our head officers swear, if it is that schooner, never to let another go so easily. One declares the vessel is loaded with cotton, and worth at least $100,000, but that, notwithstanding, he will sell his share for $500 in good gold. No one bids so high. Our ensign offers his for one dollar, and the paymaster sells his to the surgeon for fifty cents, the magnificence of which bargain the latter learns from the captain, who says his share will be about seven and a half cents! We steam alongside, and learn that our prize is the schooner St. George, bound for Wilmington, via the Bermudas, with a cargo of salt, saltpetre, etc., and worth perhaps four thousand dollars. We send our prize list on board the flagship, and have a nice chat over the capture. It puts us in good humor, and our vessels chassee around each other till afternoon, when we separate, to hear shortly that the schooner, on being searched, has disclosed rich merchandise, gold, Whitworth guns, &c., hidden under her nominal cargo of salt. So hurra again for our prize list! This almost makes up for the loss of the steamer.

As we are on the point of letting go our anchor, the distant boom of cannon is heard, and the flagship orders us to repair to the seat of danger with all speed. We haste away, and as we go, hear a third gun fired. It comes from the direction of the brig Perry, and we cut through the water toward it, at a twelve-knot rate, for a good half hour, but hearing no more firing, put in near the shore to watch for the rebel vessel, as we think those guns were intended to put us on our guard. It soon grows dark; lights are ordered out, and each man blinds his port. No talking above a whisper must be heard; we are to be still as an arctic night. Midnight passes, and lights still flicker along the shore. It is so dark we cannot see the land, though not more than a mile from it, and only know what it is by our compass and bearings, and the fires which lighten up the clouds in spots right over them. One, two, and three o'clock have passed; no sail or sound yet, and the night so dark we cannot see a ship's length away. Half past three, and we begin to heave anchor. The rattle of the chains is just enough to drown the sound of paddle wheels should a steamer approach, and the sound of her own wheels would in turn drown our noise; so if one does run in to land, it may be over us, for any warning we should have of its whereabout.

Suddenly the acting master jumps, looks for an instant across the bows into the thick darkness, and bids a boy report to the captain and lieutenant 'a vessel almost on us.' The man at the windlass is stopped, unshackles the chain, and lets the anchor go with a buoy attached. Captain and lieutenant come on deck, and order to blaze away with our fifty-pound Parrott. Crash! through the still air rings the sharp report, and the ball goes whizzing through the gloom, in the direction the vessel was seen. The bright flash of the gun, and the thick cloud of smoke make the darkness tenfold more impenetrable. For half an hour, we chase in every direction, then fire again toward the shore. It is just four; a gray light is working up through the mist, and we catch the faintest glimpse of the Daylight, one of our fleet. A few minutes later, and we see a speck near the shore, which the spyglass shows to be the steamer we chased and fired after in the night. The surf beats about her; in her frantic efforts to escape, she in the darkness has been run ashore by our close pursuit. We steam up, to get within range and destroy, if we cannot take her, when the Daylight, now discovering her, opens fire. Once, twice, three times she has banged away a broadside at the rebel sidewheel, and now the batteries on shore in turn open fire on her. The sea fog hangs like a shroud over and between us and the land, which looms up mysteriously, stretching its gray length along the western horizon. Spots of fire bursting from the midst of it, tear through the fog cloud right at us. It seems, in its vast, vague undefinedness, rather an old-time dragon, with mouth spouting fire and thunder, than harmless earth. The smoke of our own guns settles around us; our ears ring with our own firing: the excitement of the moment is intense. The jets of flame seem to spout right at one, and the inclination to dodge becomes very strong. The Daylight has stopped firing: what is the matter? The fog lifts slightly, and as the flagship advances to join in the fight, we see that the Daylight is moving back to reload and let her pass in, which she does, entering the circle of the rebel fire, between us and them. She finds it out quickly, for their guns are brought to bear on her, and the balls strike the water frightfully near. She turns, but, as she leaves the fiery circle, delivers, one after the other, a whole broadside of guns, followed by the Penobscot, who too gives them a few iron pills.

From six to eight A. M., the vessels gather in a cluster at safe distance from the land, and the commanders of the different vessels repair on board the flagship to consult what next shall be done. Meanwhile the spyglass shows crowds of rebels along the shore, and great efforts seem to be making to get the steamer off. Puffs of steam and clouds of black smoke from her chimneys show that she is blowing off steam, firing up, and pushing hard against the shore. Now her paddle wheels are working; her stern is afloat. Again and again it is reported, 'She's getting herself off the beach; she'll soon be off!' but it does not appear to hasten the powers that be, who apparently have decided that, as it will not be high tide till nearly one P. M., she is safely aground till then.

Finally, after long delay, it is decided that all hands shall be piped to breakfast, and we go in for a regular fight afterward. So the boatswain blows his whistle, and each man goes to his mess. Breakfast is leisurely gone through with, and then the drum beats all to quarters. And now it looks like serious work. Men gather round their guns eager for battle, and the surgeon stands ready, instruments before him, for whatever may come. But hardly are they ready for the fight, when the rebel steamer, with its traitor flag floating high in air, has extricated itself from the beach, and is steaming down the coast as fast as it can go. The golden opportunity is lost—was lost when the morning hour was spent in unnecessary discussion, eating, and drinking. Still they try to make up for lost time by rapid firing now, for she may be taking in a precious and comforting cargo of arms and other stores of war. The shots fall close about her, but a little short. Whitworth guns protect her as she goes, for our steamers dare not venture too near land, lest some long-range ball smash through their steam chests. The batteries from which the rebels fired were mostly erected after the steamer ran ashore, and seemed to consist principally of field pieces and guns hastily drawn to the spot, with no earthworks to protect them. This speedy work of theirs was in strong contrast to our slow motions. With a spyglass we could see telegraph poles stretched along the shore. The steamer had probably not been ashore one hour, when eight miles south to the fort, and eight or ten miles north to Wilmington, the news had spread of its arrival, and busy hands bestirred themselves, dragging up guns and ammunition to cover their stranded prize. As soon as sunlight lit up the beach, squads of men were seen pulling at ropes to work the vessel off the sandy beach. While they were thus engaged, breakfast was being quietly eaten on board our vessels! We kept up our fire till the steamer got under the guns of the fort and out of our reach, and then retired; and so ended our chase in nothing but noise and smoke.

We have given the reader a clue to a little of the inefficiency of the Wilmington blockade. In our next paper, we shall endeavor to picture some of the effects of naval life on character, and the strange experiences one can have on shipboard, even in the monotony of life on a blockader.



BUCKLE, DRAPER; CHURCH AND STATE.

FOURTH PAPER.

In the first paper of this series, reference was made to the Principles of Unity and Individuality as dominating over distinctive epochs of the world's progress; and certain characteristics of each epoch were pointed out which may be briefly recapitulated. Up to a period of time which is commonly said to commence with the publication of Lord Bacon's Novum Organum, the preponderating tendency in all the affairs of Society—in Government, in Religion, in Thought, in Practical Activities—was convergent and toward Consolidation, Centralization, Order, or, in one word, Unity; with a minor reference only to Freedom, Independence, or Individuality. A change then took place, and the Tendency to Unity began to yield, as the major or chief tendency in society, to the opposite or divergent drift toward Disunity or Individuality, which gradually came to be pre-eminently active. The Spirit of Disintegration which thus arose, has exhibited and is still exhibiting itself in Religious affairs, by the destruction of the integrality of the Church, and its division into numerous sects; and in the State, by the Democratic principle of popular rule, as opposed to the Monarchical theory of the supremacy of one.

We have now arrived, in the course of our development as a race, at the culminating point of the second Stage of Progress—the Era of Individuality. The predominant tendency of our time in things Religious, Governmental, Intellectual, and Practical, is toward the utter rejection of all clogs upon the personal freedom of Man or Woman. This is seen by the neglect into which institutions of all kinds tend to fall, and the disrespect in which they are held; in the movements for the abolition of Slavery and Serfdom; in the recognition of the people's right of rule, even in Monarchical countries; more radically in the Woman's Rights Crusade, and in the absolute rejection, by the School of Reformers known as Individualists, of all governmental authority other than that voluntarily accepted, as an infringement of the individual's inherent right of self-sovereignty.

This Spirit of Individuality, this desire to throw off all trammels, and to live in the atmosphere of one's own personality, exhibits itself in a marked degree in the literature of our day. It is the animating spirit of John Stuart Mill's work 'On Liberty'—a work which, as the writer has elsewhere shown, was substantially borrowed, although without any openly avowed acknowledgment of indebtedness, from an American publication. It is this spirit which has inspired some of the most remarkable of Herbert Spencer's Essays; and is distinctively apparent in the Fourth one of the Propositions which Mr. Buckle affirms to be 'the basis of the history of civilization;' and in the general tenor of Prof. Draper's Intellectual Development of Europe.

The gist of this doctrine of Individuality, as it is now largely prevalent in respect to the institutions of the Church and the State, and which is squarely affirmed in the proposition above mentioned, is this: Men and Women do not wish nor do they need a Spiritual Society to teach them what to believe, nor a Political Society to teach them what to do. If they are simply left alone, they will thrive well enough. An Ecclesiastical Organization is not only useless, but positively injurious; it is a decided hinderance to the progress of humanity; and the same is true of a Civil Organization, except in so far as it serves the purpose of protection to person and property.

It is intended to show in this article the erroneousness of this doctrine; to point out that Religious and Political Institutions have, in the past, been great aids to human advancement; that they are still so; and will be in the future. In this manner we shall meet the arguments of those who regard such institutions as having always been unnecessary and a hinderance; and of those who, while considering them as essential in the past, believe that they are now becoming obsolete, are detrimental to the cause of human progress, and in the future to be wholly dispensed with.

Mankind in its entirety resembles a pyramid. At the base are the ignorant and superstitious nations of the earth, comprising the great majority of its inhabitants. A step higher includes the next greatest number of nations, in which the people are less ignorant and less degraded, but still very low as respects organization and culture. So, as we rise in the scale of national development, the lines of inclusion continually narrow, until we reach the apex, occupied by the most advanced nation or nations.

That which is true of nations is so of classes and of individuals composing classes. Every community has its natural aristocracy, its superior men and women. These constitute the top of the pyramid of Society; and comprise those in whom intellectual powers, moral purposes, and practical capacities are most highly developed and combined. Below them comes the somewhat larger body of persons who are less endowed in respect to the qualities just enumerated. Below these comes, in turn, the still greater congregation who are still less gifted; and so on, the number increasing as the range of general capacity decreases, until we reach the layer which embodies the great mass of Society; who, though measurably affectionate, well-intentioned, and docile, are ignorant, superstitious, and simple minded, wanting in any large degree of high moral purpose, and constantly prone to the development of the vicious and depraved passions incident to this lower stratum of life.

It is evident that to meet the needs of these widely different grades of individuals, widely different manners, customs, and institutions are indispensable. Culture, delicacy, and intelligence have their own attractions, which are wholly diverse from those of crudeness, coarseness, and simplicity. The surroundings which would bring happiness to the lover of art or the man of large mental endowment, would render miserable the peasant who still lacked the development to appreciate the elegancies of refinement; while the tidy cottage and plain comforts which might constitute the paradise of the humble and illiterate rustic, would be utterly inadequate to the requirements of larger and more highly organized natures.

The Constitution and Structure of Society should be of such a nature, therefore, for the purposes of human growth and happiness, as to allow the needs and wants of every one of its members to be adequately supplied. As yet there has been no such arrangement of our social organization. In nations governed by Monarchical or Aristocratic rule, the institutions of the country are made to satisfy the demands of the privileged classes; with scarcely any reference to the wants of the masses. In Democratic communities, the opposite method is adopted; and the character of their public organizations and of their public opinion—the latter always the most despotic of institutions—is determined by the average notions of the middle class, which ordinarily furnishes the bulk of the voters; with little consideration to the desires of the higher or the necessities of the lower orders.

The institutions of any people, civil or religious, are, therefore, representative, in the main, of the state of development of the dominant and controlling class in the community. In a Monarchical or Aristocratic nation it is the upper portion of the body politic whose condition is chiefly indicated. In this case, the manners, customs, laws, etc., of the country are in advance of the great body of the people, who have yet to grow up to them. In Democratic states, the manners, customs, laws, etc., conform to the stage of advancement which the majority of the people have reached. They are thus above the level of the lower classes, who are not sufficiently developed to participate in their full benefits; and below the capacity of the superior ranks, who, though fitted for the right use and enjoyment of more liberal and higher social adaptations, are nevertheless obliged to cramp their natures and dwarf their activities to the measure of the capacities of the more numerous circle of citizens.

Three classes have thus far been named as the personnel of any Society. There is, however, a body of individuals which, although made up of persons from the three classes above indicated, constitute, in a peculiar sense, a distinct order. This includes the Philosophers, Poets, Scientists—the Thinkers of all kinds—who are in advance of the best institutions of either Monarchical or Democratic countries; who see farther into the future than even the great bulk of men of intelligence and high development; who especially understand the transient nature and inadequate provisions of existing societies, and feel the need of better conditions for intellectual, social, and moral growth.

It is from this body of men that the incentives to progress chiefly spring. They behold the errors which encumber old systems—they are, indeed, too apt to conceive them as wholly composed of errors. To them, the common and current beliefs appear to be simply superstitious. It irks them that humanity should wallow in its ignorance and blindness. They chafe and fret against the organizations which embody and foster what they are firmly convinced is all false. The Church is, in their eyes, only a vast agglomeration of priests, some of them self-deceived through ignorance; most of them not so, but deliberately bolstering up an obsolete faith for place, profit, and power. The State, both as existing in the past and now, is likewise, in their understanding, a tremendous engine of tyranny, keeping the light of knowledge from the masses; withholding liberty; and hindering the prosperity of mankind.

That there is much truth in such opinions, too much by far, is not to be denied. That Society needs regeneration in all departments of its life—political, religious, industrial, and social—is plainly apparent. But there is an essential omission in the kind of reform which is spontaneously taking place at this time, and which is lauded by Mill, Buckle, Spencer, Draper, and the advanced Thinkers of the day generally, as the true direction in which change should be made; an omission which will bring Society to disastrous revolution, even, it may be, to fatal overthrow, unless supplied.

The tendency of modern reform in reference to the institutions of Church and State—and these, in the sense in which they are here used, include all other institutions—is, as has been said, to do away with the former altogether, and to restrict the latter to the sole functions of protection of person and property. Reformatory ideas come, it has also been said, from that small circle of men and women in Society, who are in advance of the general development of the age even as represented in the superior class—meaning by this, the class which, in the average estimate, occupies the highest position; as, for instance, the Aristocracy in England, and the Wealthy Families of America.

Human Society, in all its Institutions, has been, thus far in the history of the world, a thing of spontaneous, instinctual, or automatic growth. There has never been and is not to-day, so far as is publicly known, any Science of Social Organization; any System of Laws or Principles embodying the true mode of Social Construction. There has not been, in other words, any discovery of the right Principles upon which the affairs of mankind should be conducted in reference to their mutual relationships; and hence, there is no real knowledge, but only conjecture, of what are the right relations. Might has always been the accepted Right and the only Standard of Right in the regulation of Society. The opinions of the Ruling Power give tone to human thought and action. While Kings and Oligarchies were in the ascendency, the Standard of Right—the King's or the Oligarchs' will—were based on his or their ideas of right. Later, when the People secured the conduct of their own affairs, the voice of the Majority became the voice of God, as expressed in the popular motto: Vox populi, vox Dei.

Having then no Standard of true Social Organization, it is natural, though short sighted, that the reformatory party—perceiving the insufficiencies and drawbacks of our present Societary Arrangements, feeling that they have no need of the Governmental and Religious institutions of the day, that these are, indeed, rather hindrances than aids to their progress—should think that the people of the whole world, of the civilized nations, or of one civilized nation, at least, were in like state of preparation, and that those Institutions could be safely and advantageously dispensed with. There could scarcely be a greater mistake. There are but comparatively few individuals in the world who are so highly developed in their intellectual and moral capacities, and in practical ability also, as to be competent to be a law unto themselves in the general conduct of life. The great mass of mankind, even in the most advanced communities, need still the guiding hand of a wisely constituted and really paternal Government, and the religious admonitions of a true priesthood. The greatest danger with which Society is threatened in modern times, arises from the lack of these essential concomitants of any high civilization. The degradation, squalor, ignorance, and brutality of the lowest classes; the irreverence, disrespect, dishonesty, and moral blindness of the middle orders; and the apathy, heartlessness, unscrupulousness, selfishness, cupidity, and irreligion of the upper stratum of Society, are alike due to the absence of a rightly organized State, which should command the allegiance, and of a rightly constituted Church, which should absorb the devotion, of the whole community.

The Constitution of Society must be moulded with reference to the character of the individuals in it. Of these, some are sagacious, executive, intelligent, benevolent, sympathetic, philanthropic, self-reliant; possessed of all the qualities, in fine, which inspire respect and confidence in their fellow men, and cause them to be recognized as leaders. Others are timid, ignorant, feeble-minded, credulous, prone to lean upon others, hero worshippers; people whose natural bent it is to follow some one in whom they put faith. The sentiment of loyalty is inherent in the human breast, and will find an object whereon to fasten. At one time it is an Alexander; then a Washington, a Napoleon, or a Wellington; at another, a Clay, a Webster, or a Grant. There are ranks and orders in Society as there are ranks and orders among individuals. And as the inherent rank of an individual is, as a general rule, recognized and accorded, no matter what may be the social constitution of the land in which he lives, so it is with classes. Theoretically, all individuals and orders are equal in the United States. But the Law of Nature is stronger than the laws of man; and the men and women of superior endowment in moral power, intellectual force, or practical ability, receive the voluntary homage of those who feel themselves to be inferior.

In considering the nature of the Institutions which Society needs, we have simply to consider by what mode we may best provide for the normal tendencies which ever have been and ever will be active in man. It is not in our power to change these tendencies, nor to prevent their play. But we may so order our social polity as to assist their natural drift, or to obstruct it. In the one case, the affairs of the community are conducted with harmony, and with the least possible friction. In the other, they are discordant, and are forced to reach their proximately proper adjustment through antagonism and struggle. It is the difference between the ship which flies swiftly to her destined port with favoring winds, fair skies, and peaceful seas, and one which struggles wearily to her harbor through adverse gales and stormy waves, battered, broken, and tempest tossed. The great mass of the people have always looked to the more highly developed of their race for practical guidance in the secular concerns of life, and for spiritual guidance in religious things. That they have done so, and that the Church and the State have been large factors in the sum of human progress, we shall presently see. We shall also see brought out more distinctly and clearly the fact, that the dominant classes in Society, whether the form of Government be a Monarchy, an Oligarchy, or a Democracy, are, in the main, and except, perhaps, in transitional epochs, the classes who possess, in reality, superior capacities of the quality the age most requires in its leaders.

In the earliest ages of the world, when brute force was regarded as the highest attribute of greatness, the men of might, the renowned warriors, the Nimrods and the Agamemnons, occupied the highest pinnacle of Society, and received homage from their fellows as supreme men. Of their age they were the supreme men. To our enlightened epoch, the fighting heroes of the past are but brutal bullies a little above the level of the animals whose powers and habits they so sedulously emulated. But if we plant ourselves in thought back in that savage era, if we reflect that its habits and instincts were almost wholly physical, that the chief controlling powers of the time were the arm of might and superstition, and if we ponder a moment upon the force of will, the dauntless courage, the inexorable rigor, the terrible energy, the ceaseless activity, and the gigantic personal strength which must have combined in a single man to have enabled him to rule so turbulent and so animal a people; we shall be apt to understand that the only being who could, in that age, stand first among his fellows, must have been the superior brute of all.

If we consider still further the ferocious natures of the men of that time, we shall perceive the necessity which existed for a strong Government, regulating all the affairs of Society, and administered by the most severe and savage chieftain; one who could hold all others in subjection by the terror of his might, preserve a semblance at least of order in the community, and protect his subjects from outside wrong.

But what could hold him in subjection—an irresponsible despot, without human sympathy, without any awakened sense of moral responsibility, capricious, self-willed, ambitious, lustful, vindictive, without self-control, and possessing absolute power over the lives and property of his subjects? Nothing but the dread of an offended God or gods. And, as a consolidated despotism, wielded by brute force, was the best form of Government possible in this age; so a worship based chiefly upon the incitements and terrors of retributive law—the holding out of inducements of reward for the good, and of determents of direful punishment for the wicked, in a future world—was the best religion for which the time was prepared.

Tracing the history of the world down to later times, we shall find the same state of things in society at large, until a period which it is difficult to fix, but which, we may say, did not fairly begin until the beginning or the middle of the eighteenth century. Down to that time, physical force was the dominant element among the nations. The great warriors were still the prominent men upon the stage of action, though many of the brutal characteristics of the earlier ages had disappeared. The people were still ignorant, credulous, childlike, and looked to the Feudal Aristocracy for direction and support—an Aristocracy founded on superiority of warlike talent; thus fitly representing the leading spirit of the age, and the proper guardians of the people in this warlike time. The Catholic Church, and, at a later period, the Protestant sects, held the upper classes from oppressing the lower, and taught the latter to respect and defer to the former. The Feudal Lords were thus the Social providence and protection of the poor and weak, thinking and acting for them in things beyond their range of capacity; while these, in turn, performed the agricultural and other labors to which they were competent. Each class occupied its appropriate position and fulfilled its legitimate calling. The superior orders held the superior situations; and were recognized for what they really were, leaders and guides. The masses of the community were faithful and obedient as followers. The Church inspired each with a feeling of devotion to duty, protected the subject and controlled the ruler. In its function of a Governmental arrangement, the Feudal System was admirably adapted to the necessities of the time. In its religious capacity, the Catholic Church was the bulwark of Social order during the Middle Ages.

About the period of time mentioned above, the warlike spirit which had theretofore pervaded the world and controlled its destinies, began to yield before the enlightenment of civilization. Commercial, industrial, and intellectual pursuits commenced to assume the leading position among the interests of Society. At the same time physical force and hereditary blood began to give way, as tokens of superior character, to intellectual greatness and executive commercial ability. The struggle which then commenced between the Aristocracy of Birth and the Aristocracy of Genius in all its forms, mental or practical, is still pending in the Old World. In America it has declared itself in favor of the latter. The only Noblemen here recognized are those of Nature's make—those who bear in their organizations and culture the stamp of superiority. These are, in the main, quickly recognized and acknowledged; whether they exhibit their genius in the field of Literature, Science, Invention, Government, Religion, Art—or in the thousand Commercial and Industrial Enterprises which are characteristic of this era, and especially of this country.

With the breaking up of the Feudal System and the advent of modern commercial activities, a great change took place in the organization of Society. Under this system a community was, as has been indicated, made up in such a manner that the whole body formed, so to speak, one family, having mutual interests; each individual performing those functions—for the benefit of the whole—for which he was, as a general rule, best fitted. The most warlike, sagacious, executive—those, in short, who were best capacitated for leaders and protectors, being at the head, and looking after the welfare of the whole; while others occupied such stations and rendered such services as their qualifications made them adequate to, in subordination to these leaders. Thus the interests of community were linked immediately together. They formed a grand Cooeperative Association, in which each member recognized his obligations to the whole body of associates, and to every individual associate, and measurably fulfilled those obligations as they were understood at that day. The poor were not left to fall into starvation and misery for the want of work; there were no paupers; and the rich and powerful classes did not neglect the affairs of the indigent and weak as those who had no claim upon them. On the contrary, they felt that mankind were the children of one Father, and their brethren. They felt that their superior powers devolved upon them accompanying responsibilities; that because they were comparatively far seeing and strong, they were bound by all the nobler sentiments of manhood to watch over and guide the short sighted and the feeble. Under the inspiration of the Catholic Church—a Church whose persistent efforts were ever devoted in a marked degree to the amelioration of the physical no less than the spiritual conditions of humanity, a Church which strove in the darkest hours of its history and always to stand between the helpless and suffering and their oppressors—they accepted this office and fulfilled its functions. To the beat of their understanding—with the light they then had, considering the times in which they lived, and the state of the world's progress—they executed well and faithfully the duties which pertained to it. Far better, indeed, as we shall presently see, than the opulent and powerful perform the same duties in our day.

With the commencement of more peaceful times and the gradual civilization of Society, the necessity of personal protection which had, in great measure, given rise to the Feudal System, passed away. Civil law acquired the protective power which had formerly resided in the arm of physical force. Travel became safe. The accumulations of industry were less liable to be wrenched from their legitimate owner by the hand of the robber. There was a rapid opening up of intelligence among the masses. Individual energy was stimulated. Commerce received a wonderful impetus. The bounds of personal freedom were enlarged. Men felt no longer the necessity of association for the sake of safety. They felt, moreover, the restless surging of new-born powers within them; and longed to give them exercise. So the old forms of community life were slowly broken up. Individuals embarked in various enterprises; now no longer consociated with others in mutual cooeperation, but for their individual benefit. Thus competitive industry gradually supplanted the old method of cooeperative or associated industry, as seen in its crude and imperfect form, and the inauguration of the false and selfish system which still prevails began.

There could be but one result to a mode of commercial and industrial traffic and a system of labor and wages which pits the various classes of Society together in a strife for the wealth of the world, the fundamental principle of which strife is, that it is perfectly right to take advantage of the necessities of our neighbors in order to obtain their means for our own enrichment.

For this was the principle which instinctively sprang up in the world as the basis of business, and which has never been changed. Traffic originated in the necessities of life, and was extended by the desire to obtain wealth. Each individual perceived some want in his neighbor, and forthwith proceeded to supply this want, charging just as much for the thing supplied as the desire for the article or his need of it would force the person supplied to pay; without reference to the equitable price, estimated with respect to the labor bestowed in supplying the want. This principle of trade, originating in the most complete selfishness, and, viewed from any high moral point, both unjust and dishonest, has always been and is to-day the fundamental principle of our Political Economy. That 'a thing is worth what it will bring,' is a basic axiom of all trade. The only price which is recognized in commerce is the market price; which is, again, what a commodity will bring. What a commodity will bring is what the necessities of mankind will make them pay. Thus is exhibited the curious spectacle of the existence of a Religion which inculcates good will and love to our neighbor as the foundation of all true civilization and virtue, coexisting side by side with a Commercial System, a relic, like slavery, of ancient barbarism, which forces all men to traffic with each other on the principle that our neighbor is an object of legitimate prey.

Of course, in a System of Competitive Industry thus carried on, the wealth of the world would fall into the hands of those of superior powers; while the feeble, the stolid, and the ignorant would be left poor and helpless. And, as the different classes of the community would be no longer directly associated with each other in their labors and interests, but would be, on the contrary, competitors—and as the fact that there had been free competition would be held by all classes to absolve them from any responsibility as to each other's welfare—it would inevitably result that the weaker orders should fall into indigence, degradation, wretchedness, starvation, and premature death.

Such has been the case. With the advent of Competitive Industry in Europe and America—to confine ourselves to these countries—with the disintegration of the Social System in which the different classes were associated in mutually dependent and cooeperative efforts; with the abrogation, on the part of the superior body of citizens, of all responsibility for, and direct interest in, the affairs and comfort of the lower orders, has come Pauperism, Social Instability, and a degree of misery and depravity among the poorest of the masses, never before known in the history of the world, all things being taken into consideration. It is a well-known saying of Political Economists, that the rich are daily growing richer, and the poor poorer. It might be added with truth: and more degraded and dangerous.

The effects of this method of Competitive Industry upon the higher classes have been scarcely less injurious, though in a different direction. It has bred an intense selfishness and an apathy in respect to the sufferings of others which no lover of his race can contemplate without emotions of anguish. Not only is the idea of any effort for the permanent relief of the poorer classes, for taking them under special care and making their welfare the business of Society, not entertained by any large number of persons; but those who do feel keenly the necessity of such a step, and whose sympathies are aroused by the sufferings of the masses around them, are too deeply imbued with the ease-loving spirit of the age, too much wedded to their own comfort, to take any active measures for the realization of their desires, or to forego their momentary interests to secure them.

The rich heap up riches by the iniquitous trade-system which drifts the earnings of the laborers into their net, and are dead to the call of those whom they are, unconsciously in most cases, defrauding. Nay! they even struggle to wring from them the largest possible amount of work for the smallest possible pay! Day by day they grow more exacting as they grow wealthier; day by day the laboring orders sink into more harassing and hopeless conditions. Had the functions of Government in our own country and in England been those only of protection to persons and property; had not the general and local authorities in some degree assisted the oppressed toilers; had not the Church by her admonitions and pleadings kept some sparks of feeling alive in the breast of the people of this money-getting age, and stimulated somewhat their benevolence, the laboring classes of England and America would long since have sunk to utter destitution. Nor would this have been all. For when the mass of the people reach such a point; when they are driven to despair, as they are now fast being driven, and would long ago have been driven but for the circumstances stated, then comes the terrible reaction, the frightful revolution, the upheaval of all order, anarchy, and—who shall tell what else? The Riot of July is still ringing its solemn warning—all unheeded—in the ears of this people. Society has yet and speedily to lift the masses out of their ignorance, poverty, squalor, and accompanying brutality, or to sink awfully beneath their maddened retaliation.

In thus criticizing the Industrial Polity of modern times as, in the respects indicated, inferior to that of the Feudal System, the writer does not wish to be understood as affirming any more than is really said. The idea which it is desired to express is this: that the plan upon which this system was founded—the mutual interdependence of classes and their reciprocally cooeperative labor—was far superior to the method of Competitive Industry now in vogue; and the true type—when rightly carried out, without the drawbacks and the evils of the Feudal System—of Social organization. That there are compensations in our modern mode, and that, on the whole, Society advances in adopting it, is true. But it will take a further step in advance when it reverts to that plan on the footing above indicated; when it adopts the plan without the evils which in an ignorant and undeveloped age necessarily accompanied it.

It has not been forgotten that the Church has arrayed itself, to no small extent, against the advent of new knowledge; that the State has suppressed the enlarging tendencies of individual liberty; and that both have been, in this way and in other ways, as Mr. Buckle and Professor Draper have clearly shown, clogs upon the hurrying wheels of the nations. It is precisely because they have been and are still so, that they served and do serve the cause of progress.

It has been previously stated that new truths come from the body of advanced Thinkers, who constitute a fourth and comparatively small class in the community. The discoverer of a new truth sees the immense advantages which would accrue to Society from a knowledge of it, and is eager for its immediate promulgation and acceptance; and, if it be of a practical nature, for its incorporation into the working principles of the Social polity. This may be true. But there is another verity of equal importance, which ordinarily he does not take into consideration, namely: that the great mass of the people who form Society are not prepared for the change which he contemplates. They comprehend and act more slowly than the Thinkers. The novelty must be brought home to their understandings gradually, and assimilated. Old forms of thought, old associations, encrusted prejudices, the deep-seated opinions of years must be modified before the new will find a lodgment in their convictions.

It is well that the Thinker should urge with impetuous and ardent zeal his side of the case; that he should insist upon the immediate adjustment of thought or activity in accordance with advanced right. It is true that he will not instantly succeed. It is equally true that, with human nature and Society as they now are, he would destroy all order if he did. Men can live only in that portion of truth which they are competent to appreciate. Place the Indian in the heated city, and make him conform to the usages of city life, he pines and dies. If it were possible to take away from the ignorant and child-minded races of the earth or portions of community their superstitious faith, and substitute the higher truths of a more spiritual interpretation, yet would they not subserve their religious purposes. So, when the new verity is held up to view, to the great mass who cannot understand it, it is no truth, but a lie. They oppose it. Thus the discovery becomes known. Discussion excites new thought. The Thinkers array themselves upon one side, urging forward; the State and the Church, representing the body of Society, take the other, standing sturdily still, or hesitating, doubting either the validity of the alleged truth or its uses. Between the clash of contending opinions the new ideas take shape in the awakened minds which are prepared for them. These come shortly to be the majority. The State and the Church gradually and imperceptibly modify their methods or their creeds; and so, safely and without disaster, humanity takes a step in advance.

It would be better, indeed, if this slow process were not necessary. When the whole scope of Fundamental Truths is apprehended; when a Science of the Universe is known; when truth is no longer fragmentary; and when there is mutual confidence and cooeperation among the different classes of community, it will not be necessary. But until then, any attempt to force an instantaneous acceptance of new truths or an immediate inauguration of new methods upon the mass of the people will only serve, if successful, to overthrow order in Society, and introduce Social anarchy in its stead. From such an attempt came the chaos of the French Revolution;—from an endeavor to inaugurate ideas essentially correct among a people noway ready to comprehend them rightly. The Conservative Element is as essential to the well-being of society as the Progressive. To eliminate either is to destroy its balanced action; and to give it over to stagnation on the one hand, or to frenzy on the other. The Thinkers of the past have done, and those of the present are doing, good work for humanity, on the Progressive side. The Church and the State of the past have done, the Church and the State of the present are doing, good work for humanity, on the Conservative side. Through the instrumentality of the Thinkers, the Church, and the State, the world has been brought slowly, steadily, and safely along the path of progress, now gaining in one way, and now in another; at times abandoning one line of advance, only to go ahead upon a different one; yet always moving onward, and standing to-day, in spite of its seeming retrogressions, at the highest point of development which it has ever touched.

The Church and the State of the future will be the subject of subsequent consideration.



LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN.

For months that followed the triumph the rebels had boasted they wrought, But which lost to them Chattanooga, thus bringing their triumph to nought; The mountain-walled citadel city, with its outposts in billowy crowds, Grand soarers among the lightnings, stern conquerors of the clouds! For months, I say, had the rebels, with the eyes of their cannon, looked down From the high-crested forehead of Lookout, from the Mission's long sinuous crown Till GRANT, our invincible hero, the winner of every fight! Who joys in the strife, like the eagle that drinks from the storm delight! Marshalled his war-worn legions, and, pointing to them the foe, Kindled their hearts with the tidings that now should be stricken the blow, The rebel to sweep from old Lookout, that cloud-post dizzily high, Whence the taunt of his cannon and banner had affronted so long the sky.

Brave THOMAS the foeman had brushed from his summit the nearest, and now The balm of the midnight's quiet soothed Nature's agonized brow: A midnight of murkiest darkness, and Lookout's dark undefined mass Heaved grandly a frown on the welkin, a barricade nothing might pass. Its breast was sprinkled with sparkles, its crest was dotted in gold, Telling the camps of the rebels secure as they deemed in their hold. Where glimmered the creek of the Lookout, it seemed the black dome of the night Had dropped all its stars in the valley, it glittered so over with light: There were voices and clashings of weapons, and drum beat and bugle and tramp, Quick flittings athwart the broad watchfires that spotted the grays of the camp: Dark columns would glimmer and vanish, a rider flit by like a ghost; There was movement all over the valley, the movement and din of a host.

'Twas the legion so famed of the 'White Star,' and led on by GEARY the brave, That was chosen to gather the laurel or find on the mountain a grave. They crossed the dim creek of the Lookout, and toiled up the sable ascent, Till the atoms black crawling and struggling in the dense upper darkness were blent. Mists, fitful in rain, came at daydawn, they spread in one mantle the skies, And we that were posted below stood and watched with our hearts in our eyes; We watched as the mists broke and joined, the quick flits and the blanks of the fray; There was thunder, but not of the clouds; there was lightning, but redder in ray; Oh, warm rose our hopes to the 'White Star,' oh, wild went our pleadings to heaven; We knew, and we shuddered to know it, how fierce oft the rebels had striven; We saw, and we shuddered to see it, the rebel flag still in the air; Shall our boys be hurled back? God of Battles! oh, bring not such bitter despair!

But the battle is rolling still up, it has plunged in the mantle o'erhead, We hear the low hum of the volley, we see the fierce bomb-burst of red; Still the rock in the forehead of Lookout through the rents of the windy mist shows The horrible flag of the Crossbar, the counterfeit rag of our foes: Portentous it looks through the vapor, then melts to the eye, but it tells That the rebels still cling to their stronghold, and hope for the moment dispels. But the roll of the thunder seems louder, flame angrier smites on the eye, The scene from the fog is laid open—a battle field fought in the sky! Eye to eye, hand to hand, all are struggling;—ha, traitors! ha, rebels, ye know Now the might in the arm of our heroes! dare ye bide their roused terrible blow? They drive them, our braves drive the rebels! they flee, and our heroes pursue! We scale rock and trunk—from their breastworks they run! oh, the joy of the view!

Hurrah, how they drive them! hurrah, how they drive the fierce rebels along! One more cheer, still another! each lip seems as ready to burst into song. On, on, ye bold blue-coated heroes! thrust, strike, pour your shots in amain! Banners fly, columns rush, seen and lost in the quick, fitful gauzes of rain. Oh, boys, how your young blood is streaming! but falter not, drive them to rout! From barricade, breastwork, and riflepit, how the scourged rebels pour out! We see the swift plunge of the caisson within the dim background of haze, With the shreds of platoons inward scudding, and fainter their batteries blaze; As the mist curtain falls all is blank; as it lifts, a wild picture out glares, A wild shifting picture of battle, and dread our warm hopefulness shares; But never the braves of the 'White Star' have sullied their fame in defeat, And they will not to-day see the triumph pass by them the foeman to greet!

No, no, for the battle is ending; the ranks on the slope of the crest Are the true Union blue, and our banners alone catch the gleams of the west, Though the Crossbar still flies from the summit, we roll out our cheering of pride! Not in vain, O ye heroes of Lookout! O brave Union boys! have ye died! One brief struggle more sees the banner, that blot on the sky, brushed away, When the broad moon now basking upon us shall yield her rich lustre to-day: She brings out the black hulk of Lookout, its outlines traced sharp in the skies, All alive with the camps of our braves glancing down with their numberless eyes. See, the darkness below the red dottings is twinkling with many a spark! Sergeant Teague thinks them souls of the rebels red fleeing from ours in the dark; But the light shocks of sound tell the tale, they are battle's fierce fireworks at play! It is slaughter's wild carnival revel bequeathed to the night by the day.

Dawn breaks, the sky clears—ha! the shape upon Lookout's tall crest that we see, Is the bright beaming flag of the 'White Star,' the beautiful Flag of the Free! How it waves its rich folds in the zenith, and looks in the dawn's open eye, With its starred breast of pearl and of crimson, as if with heaven's colors to vie! 'Hurrah!' rolls from Moccasin Point, and 'Hurrah!' from bold Cameron's Hill! 'Hurrah!' peals from glad Chattanooga! bliss seems every bosom to fill!

Thanks, thanks, O ye heroes of Lookout! O brave Union boys! during Time Shall stand this, your column of glory, shall shine this, your triumph sublime! To the deep mountain den of the panther the hunter climbed, drove him to bay, Then fought the fierce foe till he turned and fled, bleeding and gnashing, away! Fled away from the scene where so late broke his growls and he shot down his glare, As he paced to and fro, for the hunter his wild craggy cavern to dare!

Thanks, thanks, O ye heroes of Lookout! ye girded your souls to the fight, Drew the sword, dropped the scabbard, and went in the full conscious strength of your might! Now climbing o'er rock and o'er tree mound, up, up, by the hemlock ye swung! Now plunging through thicket and swamp, on the edge of the hollow ye hung! One hand grasped the musket, the other clutched ladder of root and of bough: The trunk the tornado had shivered, the landmark pale glimmering now, And now the mad torrent's white lightning;—no drum tapped, no bugle was blown— To the words that encouraged each other, and quick breaths, ye toiled up alone! Oh, long as the mountains shall rise o'er the waters of bright Tennessee, Shall be told the proud deeds of the 'White Star,' the cloud-treading host of the free! The camp-fire shall blaze to the chorus, the picket-post peal it on high, How was fought the fierce battle of Lookout—how won THE GRAND FIGHT OF THE SKY!



ONE NIGHT.

I.

From the window at which I write, in these November days, I see a muddy, swollen river, spread over the meadows into a dingy lake; it is not a picturesque or a pretty stream, in spite of its Indian name. Beyond it the land slopes away into a range of long, low hills, which the autumn has browned; the long swaths of fog stretching between river and hill are so like to them and to the dissolving gray sky that they all blend in one general gloom. This picture filling my eye narrows and shapes itself into the beginning of my story: I see a lazy, dirty river on the outskirts of a manufacturing city; where the stream has broadened into a sort of pond it is cut short by the dam, and there is a little cluster of mills. They all belong to one work, however, and they look as if they had been set down there for a few months only; 'contract' seems written all over them, and very properly, for they are running on a Government order for small arms. There is no noise but an underhum of revolving shafts and the smothered thud of trip hammers. Ore dust blackens everything, and is scattered everywhere, so that the whole ground is a patchwork of black and gray; elsewhere there is snow, but here the snow is turned to the dingy color of the place. It is very quiet outside, being early morning yet; a cold mist hides the dawn, and the water falls with a winter hiss; the paths are indistinct, for the sky is only just enough lightening to show the east.

The coal dust around one door shows that the fires are there; a cavernous place, suddenly letting a lurid glow out upon the night, and then black again. It is only a narrow alley through the building, making sure of a good draft; on one side are the piles of coal, and on the other a row of furnace doors. The stoker is sitting on a heap of cinder. He is only an old man, a little stooping, with a head that is turning ashes color; his eye is faded, and his face nearly expressionless, while he sits perfectly still on the heap, as if he were a part of the engine which turns slowly in a shed adjoining and pants through its vent in the roof. He has been sitting there so long that he has a vague notion that his mind has somehow gone out of him into the iron doors and the rough coal, and he only goes round and round like the engine. Yet he never considered the matter at all, any more than the engine wanted to use its own wheel, which it turned month after month in the same place, to propel itself through the world; just so often he opened and shut each door in its turn, fed the fires, and then sat down and sat still.

He was looking at a boy of six, asleep at his feet on a pile of ashes and cinder, which was not so bad a bed, for the gentle heat left in it was as good as a lullaby, and Shakspeare long ago told us that sleep has a preference for sitting by hard pillows. The child was an odd bit of humanity. An accident at an early age had given it a hump, though otherwise it was fair enough; and now perhaps society would have seen there only an animal watching its sleeping cub. Presently the boy woke and got on his feet, and began to walk toward the cold air with short, uncertain steps, almost falling against a furnace door. The old man jumped and caught him.

'Ta, ta, Nobby,' he said, 'what's thou doin'? Them's hotter nor cender. Burnt child dreads fire—did knowst 'twas fire?'

He had a sort of language of his own, and his voice was singularly harsh, as if breathing in that grimy place so long had roughened his throat.

'There, go, Nobby, look thee out an' see howst black she is. Ta, but it's hawt,' and he rubbed his forehead with his sleeve; 'it's a deal pity this hot can nawt go out where's cold, an' people needin' it. Here's hot, there's cold, but 'twill stay here, as it loved the place 'twas born—home, like. Why, Net, that thee?'

There was no door to the place to knock at or open, but the craunch of a foot was heard on the coal outside, and a girl came in, moist and shivering. The stoker set her down in a warm corner, and looked at her now.

'Is thee, my little Net?' he repeated.

'Yes, and I've brought your breakfast, father; 'twas striking six before I come in.'

'Too early, my girl, sleep her sleep out. Here's hot an' cosey like, an' time goes, an' I could wait for breakfast, till I'm home. I'll nawt let my little girl's sleep.'

'No, father, I couldn't sleep after five, anyway; and I thought I must bring your breakfast to-day. You'll walk back through the cold easier after something hot to eat.'

'That's my dear little girl. Shiverin' yet, she is. There, lay down on this,' raking out a heap of fresh ashes, 'them warm an' soft like, an' go ye to sleep till I go.'

'No, I must heat your coffee,' she answered, steadying the pot before one of the furnaces with bits of coal.

''Ware that door doan' fly back an' hurt ye; them does so sometimes.'

'Yes, I'll be careful. Why, you've got Whitney here!'

'He come down to-night, Net. By himself, somehow, though I doan' knaw how Lord kep' his short feet from the river bank an' the floom. An' he couldn't go back, nor I couldn't go with him. He's slep' on the cender, nice; all's a cradle to Nobby.'

'Yes, cinder's a good bed, when the eyes are shut,' said the girl, bitterly. 'The coffee was smoking hot when I started, but it's cold out this morning, so there's all this to be done over.'

'Yes, outdoors has cooled it. The world was hungry, like, an' wanted to eat it. Small nubbin' for all the world, but it stole the hot an' the smell o' the meat.'

The girl did not reply to this bit of pleasantry. She was about eighteen, and her face would have been strikingly pretty except for the eager, hungering look of the eye; but in every motion, every look, and even the way in which she wore her neat and simple clothing, there was the word 'unsatisfied.'

Finally, she brought coffee and meat to him.

'Here, Net, take ye a sip,' said he; ''twill warm ye nice. Shiverin' yet she is; 'deed the mornin's clammy cold; there's naw love in thet. Drink! I cawnt take ye home so, an' my time's most up; it's gettin' light.'

But she refused it, and sat and watched him as he ate, never taking her eyes from his face.

'Father,' she presently said, 'what do you do here?'

The old stoker laughed: 'Do, my girl? Why, keep up the fires. It's like I'm a spoke in a wheel or summut. I keeps the fires, an' the fires makes the angeen go, an' thet turns the works thet makes the pistols, so't folks may kill theirsel's. There's naw peace anywheres in the world.'

'I didn't mean that; but what do you do the rest of the time? Don't you think? Aren't you tired of this place, father?'

'Sometimes it's like I think so; but how's the use, my Net? Here's rough, an' here's rough too,' touching his chest. 'On smooth floors, such as I couldn't work, if we could get there. How's the use o' bein' tired? We've got to keep steady at summut. It's best to be content, like Nobby there; cender's as good a bed as the king's got.'

'Well, if you were tired, you're going to rest now, so I wish you were.'

'What's that mean?'

'You've got through here, that's all,' cried the girl, with a smothered sob.

He set down his pot of coffee and his pail: 'Who told ye so?' he demanded.

'Margery Eames.'

Catching the girl's hand, the old man half dragged her through the opening into a yard devoted to coal storage. Picking their way through the spotted mire, they entered a shed where trip hammers were pounding in showers of sparks, stepped over a great revolving shaft, and came to a stairway; up, up, to the fifth floor, where the finishing rooms were.

Faint daylight was straggling through the narrow windows, and most of the lamps were out, those that were burning being very sickly, as if they did it under protest. A number of women were employed here, because much of the work was merely automatic, and just now men were scarce and women would work cheaper. The women were coarse and rough, rather the scum of the city—perhaps some might have fallen; but the place was noisome and grimy, with a sickening smell of oil everywhere, repulsive enough to be fit for any workers.

The stoker and his daughter walked to the farther end, and came to where a little group of women were sitting round a bench; one of the group tipped a wink to the rest.

'How's coal an' fires now, Adam?' she said.

'Did ye tell my girl anythin'?' he demanded.

'Of course I did.'

'What was't then?'

'Well,' said she, wiping her greasy hands on the bosom of her dress, 'I watched on the road for her this morning, an' I told her.'

'What?'

'I told her she needn't try to put on airs, she was only a stoker's daughter, an' he'll not have that place any more.'

'Did ye knaw she didn't knaw't?'

'Yes. What do you care, old dusty? She's got a good place.'

'Yes, she has, Lord's good for't.'

'Shall we fight it out, Adam? Hold on till I wipe my hands.'

'Nawt till one can fight by hersel', Margery. I forgive yer spite, an' hope Lord woan' bring it back to ye ever. What's said can nawt be helped. Come, Net.'

'You're a mean creature, Margery, to tell him that,' said one, after they were gone. 'I expected to hear you tell him about the place his girl's got. Lord! he's innocent as a baby about it, an' thinks she's on the way up, while everybody else knows it, an' knows it's the way down.'

''Tis that,' said Margery, 'but I've that much decency that I didn't say it. Let the old man take one thing at a time; he'll know it soon enough when she fetches up at the bottom.'

'What did you want to trouble old Adam for?'

'Because I did!' cried the woman, with a sudden flash; 'because I like to hurt people. I've been struck, an' stabbed, an' bruised, an' seared, an' people pointin' fingers at me, whose heart wasn't fouler'n theirs, if my lips were. It's all cut an' slash in the world, an' the only way to get on with pain when you're hit, is to hit somebody else. I'd rather find a soft spot in somebody than have a dollar give me, sure's my name's Margery. What business has he to have any feelin's, workin' year after year down there in the coal? Why haven't people been good to me? I never come up here into this grease; people sent me; an' when hit's the game I'll do my part. I hope his girl's a comfort to him; he'll be proud enough of her some time, you see.'

Adam seated his girl again, opened the doors one after another, and raked and fed the fires; then he shut them, and stood his rake in the corner, and seated himself.

'Well, it's come out,' he said; 'but I didn't mean ye should know, yet. Margery's ill willed, but it's like she didn't think.'

'I oughtn't to have told you till after to-morrow, father.'

'There's how't seems hard, thet it must come to Christmas. An' when I've been here so long, twenty year noo, Net.'

'Oh, don't call me that any more, father; I don't like it.'

'Why nawt, little girl? What should I call her? You used to love to hear it.'

'Not now, not now,' said the girl, in a choking voice, 'not to-day, not till Christmas is over. Call me Jane.'

'Yes, twenty year ago I come here, an' I've been settin' on them piles o' cender ever sence. 'Deed I most love them doors an' the rake an' poker. I've hed my frets about it sometimes, but I doan' want to go though.'

'And I say it's a shame in them to use you so!' cried the girl. 'Making their money hand over hand, and to go and grudge you this ash hole, for the sake of saving! They'll get no good from such reckoning. I wish their cruel old mill would burn down!'

'No, Jane, hold hersel'! Here's fire—should I do it?'

'It's Cowles's work. I hate him.'

'The mill's their own, Jane; they gev me what they liked; I've no claim. Mr. Cowles do as he think best for t'mill.'

'Then to do it just now! I hope his dinner'll be sweet.'

'I nawt meant my girl to knaw't till Christmas wor done. But ye'll nawt mind it, Jane, ye'll nawt! We'll nawt lose Christmas, too, for it come for us. Mr. Cowles doan' own thet. We'll hev thet anyhow, an' keep it. She'll nawt fret hersel', my little girl!'

Jane did not answer.

'We'll get on somehoo, Lord knaws hoo. We never starved yet, an' you've got a good place. It'll all be right, an' Christmas day to-morrow!'

'I got a good place! Oh, father!'

'Why, Jane, I thought so. Doan' they use her well?'

'Yes, they do,' quickly answered the girl; 'I don't know why I spoke so. I'm a bit discontented, perhaps, but don't you fear for me, father; and we mustn't fret—anyway, till after to-morrow.'

'She's nawt content, is she?' said the stoker, settling his head into his hands. 'I've hed my frets, too, alone here, thinkin' summut like I should liked to knaw books, an' been defferent, but it's like I'd nawt been content. Lord knows. 'Deed I loves them doors an' the old place here, but seems as if summut was sayin' there's better things; it's like there is, but nawt for such as me. I doan' care for mysel', but I'd like to hev more to gev my little girl.'

'You give me all you've got, father, and I ought to be satisfied. But I'm not—it's not your blame, father, but I know I'm not,' she said, with sudden energy. 'I don't know what I want; it's something—it seems as if I was hungry.'

'Nawt hungry, Jane! She's nawt starvin'!'

'No, I don't want any more to eat, nor better clothes,' she said, getting out the words painfully. 'It's something else; I can't tell what it is, unless I'm hungry.'

'Well, I knaw I doan' understan' her,' said the man sadly. 'I doan' knaw my little girl. Is it him she's thinkin' of?'

The fire-glow on the girl's face hid any change that may have come there, and she only drew a little farther away, without answering.

'I've nawt seen many people, Jane, but sometimes I likes an' dislikes, as Nobby does, an' I doan' like him. An' I doan' like him to be nigh my girl; there's naw truth in him. I wish she'd say she'll hev naw more speech with him.'

'No, no, father, don't ask me that. I don't care for him, but I can't promise not to speak to him—I do! I do! Oh, father!' sobbed the girl, 'everything comes at once!'

The old man drew her head on his knee, and even his rough voice grew softer, talking to his 'little girl.' He bent and kissed her.

'I wish 'twere nawt so,' he said; 'but mebbe I'm wrong. Lord keep my little girl, an' we'll nawt fret, but be happy to-morrow.'

Another man came in with a big tread. It was the engineer, a hale, burly fellow, with a genuine, rollicking kindness. He tossed the boy into the air, pinched Jane's cheek, and gave his morning salutation in several lusty thumps on the stoker's back.

'Rippin' day this'll be, Adam,' said he; 'say t'won't, an' I'll shake your ribs loose. Just such a day's I like to breathe in; an' when I've set all night in my chair there, not sleepin' of course, but seein' that everlastin' old crosshead go in an' out, an' that wheel turnin' away just so fast an' no faster, I swear I do go to sleep with my eyes open; an' when it gets light such a day's this, I get up an' shake myself—this fashion,' giving him an extra jerk. 'Keep up heart, Adam; I know it, an' I don't know what Cowles is thinkin' of. I don't want to crowd you out, an' you ought to be the last one to go. I'd quit 'em for it myself, afford it or not, only 'twon't do you no good.'

'Merry Christmas, Mr. Grump!' cried Nobby, rubbing his eyes.

'You've slept over, my young 'un,' laughed the engineer; 'you're one day ahead. Of course the palty mill must run to-morrow. Mine don't, I warrant. My machinery runs on a fat turkey, twenty pound if he's an ounce. That's me.'

'Yes, and we've got a turkey too,' chimed Nobby.

'I warrant you have. An' he had as good an appetite when he was alive as anybody else's turkey; them fellows do gobble their grub quite conscientiously, fattin' 'emselves without knowin' or carin' whether rich or poor'll eat 'em. I'll bet yours's as fat an' good's Mr. Prescott's, or old Cowles's—damn him! No, I don't mean quite that, so near Christmas, but he ought to be choked with his own dinner, I'll say that. Keep up good heart, Adam; an' now clear out, every one! cut home to yer breakfasts! My watch now, and' I won't have one of ye round—scud! or wait a minute an' I'll pitch ye out.'

II.

After his breakfast, Adam walked back to the factory. He was wondering, as he went along, why they should begin with him if they wanted to save expense. Eighteen dollars a month was a good deal to him, but what was it to the mill? Every turn of the water wheel, he thought, made more money than his day's wages. But possibly Mr. Prescott had found out that his son fancied Jane, and meant to drive them out of town. The very day that Mr. Prescott saw him first, Mr. Cowles, the manager, told him he wasn't needed any longer, that the under engineer would see to the fires. That was punishing him for another's fault—just the way with rich men; and for a while he almost hated Mr. Prescott.

Adam Craig had had a peculiar life, as he thought. He wanted education, money, and such other things, besides something to eat and wear; but they never came to him, and he drifted into a place at the machine shops, and got the stamp put on him, and then went his round year after year with less and less thought of stepping out of it. Yet he always believed he once had some uncommon stuff in him, and he claimed his own respect for having had it, even if he had lost it now; he had his own way of proving it too. His wife was the mirror by which he judged himself. She was a German woman, whom he found in the city hospital; or rather she found him, shot through the throat by the accidental discharge of a rifle. She was just from the fatherland, and could not speak a word of English; with his swollen head he could not speak at all; but she watched him through it, and by the signs of that language which is common to all nations, they managed to understand each other, and signalized the day of his recovery by marrying. This was the pride of Adam's whole life, and convinced him he was made capable of being somebody; he held his wife to be a superior woman, and her appreciation was a consolation that never left him. 'She knawed me,' he used to say, 'she saw into me better nor I did.' And though he would talk stoutly sometimes for democracy, he had an odd notion that marrying a Continental European gave him some sort of distinction; and all his troubled talks with himself ended in his saying: 'Ah, well, if I'd been born in Germany, I might been somebody.'

Adam watched for Mr. Cowles most of the forenoon, determined to ask about his dismissal; at last the manager strolled through the shops, and Adam made a desperate effort, and went to him. He turned short about, as the stoker spoke.

'Mr. Cowles, was ye told to send me away?'

'Told! Who should tell me?'

'But I thought—I thought Mr. Prescott might said summut—'

'Do you suppose he concerns himself about you? I'm master here, and I don't ask what I shall do.'

Adam took hope: 'Hev ye said sure I must go, Mr. Cowles? I've been here so long, an' noo I'm old. I've got gray at t'mill,' touching his head as he spoke.

'You've had your wages regular, haven't you?' said Cowles, roughly. 'I don't inquire how long you've been here. Would I keep an old lathe that was worn or that I had no use for, because I'd had it a good while? Stay round to-day, if you like, and then go.'

'But eighteen dollars is nawt much to t'mill,' said Adam, humbly; 'doan' be hard, an' gev me a chance, a chance to help mysel'! T'winter's hard, an' I've a family!'

'Did I make your family? You should have thought of that long ago. Stand out of the way, if you're done.'

The stoker clung to the doorpost.

'Summut else I could do—there must be summut—ye knaw summut else, Mr. Cowles?'

'Something else to do, you fool! What could you do—run the engine? tend the planers? If I wanted you at all, I should keep you where you were.'

He moved off at this. Adam seated himself on the familiar cinder heaps and grieved in his simple way, for a time feeling almost bitter.

Little Nobby's deformity was one of the strange things that made Adam think. Several years before, he had the child with him at the factory one night, just old enough to walk a little. In Adam's momentary absence the boy managed to get upon a box near one of the furnace doors, and, rolling against the blistering iron, was horribly burned; yet unaccountably he did not die, but grew bent into a scarred, shapeless body, though his face was a sweet, childish one, innocent of fire. Nobby, as Adam called him after that, was a silent preacher to the stoker. When a clergyman asked him once if he was a Christian, he pointed to Nobby's back:

'I knaw there's a Lord,' he said,' or else Nobby'd died, burnt so sore thet way; an' I knaw He's good, or Nobby'd been a fool a'terward, like children thet burn theirsel's. Saved Nobby from dyin' an' from bein' worse nor dead, both, Lord meant him good.'

The boy was Adam Craig's grandson. His firstborn, Tom, was wild, and went to sea—the old story—leaving wife and unborn child for his father to look to. Six years had gone—the seventh began at New Year's; the boy was born, burnt, saved alive, and not idiotic; its mother had died; Adam's life was outrunning the child's, and he would soon have to leave it to go on by itself; but his faith in his son's return never shook.

'Him'll come back,' he would say, simply, and in perfect confidence, 'I knaw't well. Lord never burnt Nobby for nawt. Him's nawt dead; him'll come back some time, I knaw.'

III.

Adam went back at noon, and found something else to take his thoughts: Nobby was in his pains—a sad remnant of his terrible mishap. These were irregular, and he had been free for several months, but he had been exposed to the cold to-day. There was little to be done. At such times Adam could only cry over him, hold him in his arms while he was twisting his crooked body so that it would hardly stay in or upon anything, and say:

'Poor, poor Nobby. Him'll nawt die, Katry; but how can he live? Lord send back Tom!'

Jane was busy somewhere, and did not come home till evening. Her father had been turned out of his place; Nobby was in his pains again, after they had been hoping he wouldn't have any more; and to-morrow was Christmas! As she said, everything came at once. Things seemed to swim before her eyes—Nobby's pain was the most real of all—and as she could not help him, she wanted to get out of sight. It was all true. Aching and longing intolerably for something more than she had known, she had met Will Prescott—and he had loved her—he said so; and he had promised her books and pictures, and chances for travel and study.

She went into the best room, already trimmed for to-morrow; the Christmas tree was clustered with gifts and with candles ready for lighting, and the motto was on the top, 'Gott zur huelfe.' Jane looked it all over, and her lip quivered.

'This is pure and honest, as it says,' said she; 'and I'm a lie myself, cheating father. Christmas to-morrow! 'twon't last long; if he only knew I go to—I won't say the word—would he ever care about me again?'

She went into the other room for her shawl.

'Hes my little girl got to go out to-night?' said Adam. 'Well, there's to-morrow. Doan' stay late, Net,' kissing her good-by.

She pulled the hood over her face and went out, taking the road to the city, never slackening her pace till the lights along the way grew thicker, and she came upon the pavements. Crossing the great thoroughfare, she turned into a narrow street, and from that descended a short flight of steps into a narrower one lit only by a great lamp in front of a door, with the word 'Tanzhaus' above it; she went in here unhesitatingly. A large room with a bar on one side, small tables in the middle, and a stage at the farther end; some tables had occupants, drinking and looking at several women dancing on the stage. This was Jane's 'place;' the dance house wanted her face at its tables, and as there was nothing else open, in very desperation she went. She turned into a smaller room where the private tables were, to which she belonged; at first they had tried to teach her to dance, but she would not learn. The furniture was worn, with a slimy polish in spots; an unclean, stifling smell in the air; a few coarse prints of racers and champions hung around; and in one place a drunken artist had sketched one night a Crucifixion on the wall; the owner was angry enough, but something held back his hand from touching it, and it staid there, covered by an old newspaper.

As Jane laid away her shawl and hood, a woman came forward to meet her.

'What are you here for?' she said, fiercely; 'this is Christmas eve! there's none for me—I wish I could cry, but my tears are dried up,' snatching her tawdry cap from her head and stamping on it; 'but you're not a devil yet. Go home, if you've got a home! out the back way—quick!'

The woman caught her shoulder, pulled away the paper, and pointed to the picture on the wall.

'Look at that! When I see that, I think sometimes I'm in hell! What has that got to do with me? Do you want to get out of the reach of that? Go home, go home,' shaking her furiously.

'I can't! I can't!' cried Jane, desperately. 'He won't let me. 'Twas here or the street, I thought; I've been here three weeks, and to-night's no more'n other nights.'

A voice called in the front room, and the woman put on her cap and ran in; Jane stood where she left her. She hardly knew what moved her to-night; she saw her own body walking about, tense and foreign, as though some possession had it; she had felt a new, strange kind of strength all day, after she had her cry out. She looked up at the picture again, saying slowly to herself:

'It's for them—I've got father, and mother, and sister, and brethren.'

Nine o'clock struck, and people began to come in; there was likely to be a rush to-night, and the players in the front room commenced their liveliest round of operatic airs. One after another turned into the side room, and the calls for service grew lively. Jane moved among them mechanically, thinking all the while of Nobby tossing in his pain; of the tree waiting for to-morrow; of her father turned out of his place; of the rent and the grocer's bill that were about due; and of her own wages, pretty much all that was left. Was it such a terrible sin to be there—for them? Then she shivered to think she might be sliding down. No, no, she would be kept—they should be taken care of, but she wouldn't fall while she had them to think of. A hot flush colored her face as she thought of young Prescott, confusing her so that she almost stumbled. What would he think if he knew where she worked? No matter, he shouldn't know it. He would take her out of this by and by, and after that she would tell him all about it, and what she did it for, and he would love her all the better for it.